Hellish Behavior

This weightlessness hurts.

I soar toward the sky,
while my frustrations,
bruise ego.

A template of pain,
to match the love sick scars.

Eternal life,
in this damn,
ineffective body.

Swollen ankles,
closed up soul.

I can't remember the last time I asked for nothing in return.

To let go,
is harder than inviting in.

Will it ever get any easier?

Skip to My Lou

I followed that broken wooden path,
like I had when I was a small girl.

A bright yellow balloon,
pristine bobby socks,
and perfect bouncing curls,
as I skipped the trail.

My how things have gone awry.

Somehow the balloon had come undone,
and floated toward the grey bleached sky.

Clouds thundered above,
sprinkling my coiffed curls with acid like droplets.

My bobby's became black with muck.

This was not the friendly childhood memory I was hoping,
but persistence pursued.

I needed to know what preceded me, at the end of this journey.

My skip became a limp, as the wooden boards splintered and cracked beneath me.

The trail lead on and on.

Hope was lost on me,
but I continued on,
no longer the adolescent dream I clung too.

Rings Upon Rings

Nicotine dreams, fuel the harden criminal rage that bubbles underneath my milky flesh.

Once I was young,
but alas,
these days tick on,
melting away the cherished ideal of happiness.

That heartfelt spring in my step has drowned.

The bags under my eyes darken like the rings within an aging tree trunk.

It's a particularly funny event, aging.

We try not to think of death, but in doing so we suppress a growing fear within all of us.

We live to love,
and love to survive,
but what happens to those without love or life?

Their insides wither and decay, while the soul beats on.

A place unreachable,
unmentionable,
and uninhabitable.

A place worse then death itself.

Taco Bell

I'm that taco juiced, ratty, plastic garbage bag you threw out the window, after a night of hearty partying.

I hit the ground running and tumble in the middle of the street.

Cars run me over, but the wind pities me and blows me to the curb. 

I'm a lone traveler, tumbling around town.

Some days it rains, and the water that gathers underneath, guides me toward the drain.

I'm to oblong and head strong to wash into the sewer.

I do my best to stay afloat, until the storm passes.

People pass by, unaware and unassuming.

I even see a business woman look right at me and shake her head in disgust.

The wind sends me on another adventure, but it is short lived.

The homeless have a tug of war with my handles, fighting to finish off any remains.

I'm that dirty plastic bag.

Created for good, used and discarded.

All I Can Do Is Dream

I spend a good portion of my childhood fighting adolescence. People around me kept forcing me to grow up and I fought tooth and nail to stay the same. I didn't quite understand the pangs of growing up or why those most trusted around me had turned their back to me. Eventually evolution won, and the light inside began to die.

My teen years were spent adjusting to my  new formed body and friends. Trying to fit in and feel comfortable in my own skin. Unfortunately, society pushed me into traffic once again and I yearned for independence and freedom.

My twenties were a liberating decade. Much of it spent exploring sexuality and declaring myself free as an independent. I managed to squander my potential and gather back some of my carefree dreamer attitude I had lost as a child.

Eventually my thirties caught up with me and defined the outskirts of life. With my family getting older, I was more in charge of my life than I had hoped for. I settled down, tried to stay out of trouble, and decided to live my life proactively.

This is where it ends, so far.

I often ponder about my next decade and whether I will live, learn and die, or remain in a state of panicked anxiety.

There are days of clarity, pulling back part of the curtain, and revealing the meaning of it all. It's usually short lived and quickly yanked closed, trapping me in my own anxiety and depression, but a beacon of light remains.

What I do know is that my current drive is to be heard artistically. To ignore the neigh-sayers and  continue expressing myself. There are years of poems and art, cherished by unknown artists long dead. Enthusiasts find meaning and significance in these pieces, yet the original creators are a mystery. I like to believe that I will end my life in a similar fashion. That all these words, stories and conflicts won't be for naught.

May one day someone will discover my work, and display it with enthusiasm, for one connected soul to find meaning in it all.

Until then all I can do is dream, dream, dream.

To have a dream,
this is the hardest accomplishment in life.

Sand Storm

Weather,
worry some,
wandering.

Somehow I woke up in this desert abyss.

I have no option, but to face the harsh sands,
whipping and blowing across my cheeks,
penetrating the moisture in my eyes.

I cough and gag,
but the dryness finds its way in.

Hyper pool,
and lolly gagging,
I think I see an oasis in the distance.

Alas, it's one of those desert dreams.

The mind plays a horrible trick,
twisting reality and finding it's own way to cope under the circumstances.

The sand feels as if it's up to my knees.

I try not to dig my heels in
as I stomp through the disaster,
but it makes no difference.

Death come quick.

My mind wanders to that night we went to the town social.

You, pretty in pink,
me, dressed down in torn trousers and a mangled tie.

Even though others heckled,
you never once held your head in shame.

We tangled with the best of them,
and danced until their jealousy erupted.

I'll never forget the tragic moments.

The game changers.

That one night love.